Detoured
by xoverlover
Summary: In which Richard unknowingly reveals himself a wizard. Drabble turned Two-Shot.
1. Detoured

_Started as a drabble. Now I don't even know. Decided to leave it as it was and just post it here, because I can. o uob_

**Detoured**

He isn't really sure what had happened.

One instant, he was sitting across Bruce, pushing around the remainders of his very British meal with his fork; the next, he was on the ground, trying to avoid the bits of crumbling wall that had exploded not ten feet away from him.

He had ignored the sting of the chips of stone that cut into his cheek on their way to the ground, pressed himself close to the ground as he crawled away from the sounds of explosions, and tried his best to behave as a civilian would in this sort of situation. Step one had been finding Bruce.

"Bruce!" he'd called, coughing a bit at the dust that sucked into his mouth when he breathed. "Bruce, where are you!" The panicked edge to his voice had all been an act, he told himself flatly. Because there was no way a terrorist attack would finish off The Batman. But everything had been so confusing and loud, and he'd known the battle was still going on somewhere over his head, and Bruce was not _answering—_

"Richard!"

He would never admit to anyone how much relief he'd felt upon hearing the familiar voice among the chaotic sounds.

Step one, check. Step two, getting to Bruce, or getting out of explosion range; whichever would come first.

His planning had been interrupted by another loud explosion, this time just over six feet away from him. Dick followed instinct, and was rolling across the floor to shelter himself under a table, arms curled around his head for protection. But the little explosions followed where he went, and he'd known, in a dreadful moment of clarity, that he'd somehow turned into a target.

So maybe step two wouldn't be as easy as step one.

He had no clue how anyone had found out they were there, and the list of suspects had been far too long to try to narrow it at the moment. There were many who would give an arm and a leg to get a hold of Richard Grayson, ward to one of the richest men on Earth, and therefore good kidnapping material. And there were also many, many others who would go incredible lengths to murder Batman and Robin, unlikely – _impossible – _as it was that they had managed to get their civilian names and tracked them all the way here.

With the dust gradually settling, he'd been able to see a dark figure advancing towards him, pointing something – _a gun _– straight at him. While rolling out of the way of probable bullets, he was more than ready to drop his act and roundhouse kick the gun away, possibly breaking wrist bones in the process. The whole street around him was a complete mess of screaming and running and bodies laying worryingly still on the ground, so even if someone saw him or managed to snap a photo, he was still wearing his sunglasses. They wouldn't have recognized him.

Luckily for him, he never had to, because by the time he'd gotten up on his feet, hoodie haggard and stained with dirt, someone had come to his aid ("_Stupefy!"), _and suddenly the man was on the ground, face-down.

Dick had immediately swept down to fetch his gun, just in case he came back to, but instead found himself staring down at a stick.

"The hell—"

"Come _on_!" a voice had urged right next to him, and his free hand was taken, and then he was running down the street, leaping nimbly over wreckage and easily keeping up with the person guiding him – away from danger, if the dimming sound was any indication. "Dad's got a portkey ready! Just a bit more!"

The ground exploding to bits behind them was a clear sign they had pursuers hot on their trails, but there was people suddenly appearing out of thin air and intercepting them.

The windblown (explosion blown?) red hair he could spy on his rescuer reminded him of Kid Flash, though the slow pace they held and the clumsy trips over small rocks on their path didn't.

He'd tugged them both to the side of the street when he felt movement behind him, narrowly avoiding what looked to be a ray of violet light. To this moment, Dick hadn't puzzled out what that had been, and when it happened, he'd merely let out an intelligent "What—" before their trek resumed, at a forcibly faster pace.

Then he had reached the end of the street with the redhead, and there were a few other people standing there (two redheads, one brunette), all seeming to be waiting for them. He still wasn't sure of what had happened yet: all he knew was that he'd touched – _more like was forced to touch_ – what seemed to be a worn-out newspaper, and then someone hooked something in his navel (he might have heard a faint _"Richard!" _ in the background) and whisked him away.

Which left him in his current predicament.

The present found Dick Grayson standing awkwardly on the side of a cozy, if overcrowded, living room. Like in the alley, there were people rushing around to each other, asking very loud questions over everyone's heads, and shaking shoulders as well as giving fierce hugs. There had been only been five people in the room, including Dick, when he came. Now the number was closer to eight, but he might have miscounted them. _As if._

He had gotten the grand total of four hugs from three different redheads and a rather overbearing brunette when they finally realized something was off.

The family – because he had no doubt they were related, but he wasn't too sure about the bushy-haired girl – had finally calmed down, once they had counted heads for the hundredth time. It was in that tense but relieved silence that someone actually bothered to take a good look at him. Dick thought it was the redhead who had dragged him down the street. It mattered little, beyond the point that he was _looking_ at Dick.

And paling.

The next words spoken were shaken and painfully weak.

"You're not Harry."

If anything, the speed at which everyone else turned white couldn't be healthy, and Dick idly wondered if being here (wherever 'here' was) made for an acceptable Step two.

_So not feeling the aster._

* * *

><p>Two hours later, Dick found himself sitting in a very cozy kitchen, holding a cuppa while the family of redheads blundered about nervously.<p>

"Dear, dear... do you need anything else, sweetheart? Have you eaten lunch?"

Dick had to hand it to her, despite the obvious distress they were all in, she was a very thoughtful hostess.

"No, ma'am, thank you very much. I ate just before the attack."

She smiled at him, fidgeting with the wooden stick in her hands and glancing constantly at the door leading to the living room.

"Who did you say you were with, dear?" She eyed his cup of tea, and he pretended to take a sip from it before she could ask if he wanted it reheated.

"My father, ma'am. We were in a restaurant just off Charing Cross Road when it began." And he'd already said that to her husband when he declared he would go back to look for the Harry kid, promising to have a look out for Mr. Wayne while he looked.

The woman nodded, her lips thinning at the memory of the attack, for sure. "I'm sure he'll be fine, dear."

And he agreed easily with this, because his adoptive father was the freaking Batman. Unknown energy-ray weapons or not, he would be fine, even if he had to keep up the famous-businessman front.

"But all those Death Eaters... Why would they attack Diagon Alley," she continued fretting.

Here, Dick nodded and put on a carefully wary expression, as if he knew everything about what she was talking about.

The whole family had stared at him in shock when they found he was not Harry, and he had not missed the point at which the older couple spotted him holding one of those sticks they were so fond of and relaxed, as if that was a small weight off their shoulders. He was not sure why they should relax when he was seen holding what had been used as a weapon, but Dick was not stupid. He was Batman's protégé, and he knew all about secret organizations, and how they tended to 'deal' with people foreign to their groups.

He just hadn't figured out what sort of secret organization would involve a whole family, most of which's members were kids, _yet_.

"We weren't expecting anything like that to happen while we had lunch. It was very scary," Dick murmured over the top of his cup, eyes dancing behind his dark glasses. If he wanted a clue about what sort of situation he found himself in, his surroundings would be a good place to start.

And boy, were his surroundings _interesting_.

The books, rubber toys, and trinkets laying around the house were nothing new. He saw plenty of it when he visited Wally's room: normal teenage debris, and with six of them in the house, it was not odd it spread into the kitchen table. What was interesting were other things. Like the plates washing themselves on the kitchen sink, or the strange grandfather clock sitting across the room and its strange readings. There was a worn newspaper sprawled over the seat next to him, and he could clearly see the pictures in it moving. Nothing in this house was normal.

Even his hosts were weird. The chubby woman leaning against the kitchen counter had prepared his cup of tea without even touching it, instead waving one of those little sticks to have the tea prepare itself in front of him.

The most obvious answer to this situation was also the most childish one: Magic.

But he wasn't going to go with that right away, because these people could still be telepaths who had to use sticks as catalysts.

Which reminded him to check his hood's pouch to make sure his own stolen stick was still there. Yep. Hadn't moved. Not like he'd expected it to, but you never knew in these sort of situations. Unless you were Batman, and then you probably knew all about it.

And thinking about Bruce, Dick's fingers moved to his pants' pocket, clutching his civilian cell-phone. He was _sure_ that Bruce was okay. The mess in the street must have been bigger than he'd thought, if he hadn't called to check up with him yet. Maybe he should try contacting him first, protocols be damned.

He pulled out his sleek black phone, black-and-yellow plastic bat-signal dangling from side to side happily (and cut him some slack, Dick Grayson had been 'rescued' by Batman before, he could idolize him publicly without eliciting suspicion). He was just going to make sure there were no missed calls, but instead found his phone was dead.

"Huh?" he murmured, holding the phone over his head to see if it felt more inclined to revive if kept higher above his seat. No such luck.

"It's not going to work here." His head snapped over to the doorway, where the bushy-haired girl he'd spotted before was watching him. A quick glance at the other woman in the kitchen showed her staring curiously at his phone. Had he messed up? "There's too much magic in the household, I think. Are you a Muggleborn?"

So it _was_ magic? Well, Wally was going to have kittens when he told him of this one. What was a Muggleborn, anyway?

"Should I have mentioned that?" he asked with furrowed eyebrows, while discreetly placing one hand closer to his utility belt. The movement didn't go unnoticed by the girl's sharp eyes.

"No, its fine. No one here minds," she promised him earnestly, taking a seat on the table and shooting a smile at Mrs. Weasley, as the woman had introduced herself a while ago. "I'm a Muggleborn, too."

"Oh." Dick allowed what he hoped was a companionable smile at her. "So, how far from the house would my phone not be dead?"

Out of the kitchen window, he could spot the countryside (despite the fact they had been in the middle of a city last time he checked), and he knew for a fact that the countryside was not normally 'magic'. Fail that, he would try his Com Link. If it could connect to the Justice League base in case of extreme emergencies, it would get through whatever electromagnetic disturbance magic caused.

"Oh, um, well, I suppose not too far..."

Dick frowned at the wary glances shared between the women. The way Mrs. Weasley fingered her wand nervously made him think she hadn't just been keeping him company. He was suddenly glad he hadn't drunk any of the tea.

"You should really stay inside, dear," the redhead said tersely, and her smile looked strained. "Just while Arthur gets back. He might be here any moment now, maybe with Mr. Wayne."

"I suppose," Robin said dejectedly, sinking into his seat with a sigh.

Neither the woman or the girl looked to be in good shape. The other redheads in the house all looked a tad on the skinny side, so he was fairly certain he could take them all on, sticks or no. But he was in no immediate danger he could discern, as long as he continued looking harmless, and he did have a secret identity to keep.

"I don't think I caught your name," the bushy-haired girl attempted after a few minutes of silence.

"Dick Grayson." And unless his memory was terribly off, her name was Hermione Granger. Who was he kidding, he was the protégé of the freaking Batman. That was her name.

"Grayson?" He could see the gears turning behind those intelligent brown eyes, but she had not reacted to Bruce's name, so he could guess what this was about.

"Bruce took me in when my parents died. I kept their name." Which was common knowledge in Gotham, so it was safe to tell. Not that he enjoyed explaining it, and he was inwardly pleased when the girl took on a chastised look. Well, Dick was used to socially inept people, so he guessed he could deal with another one for a few hours.

One of the redhead sons decided to pick that moment to come sulking into the kitchen, where he sat down beside Hermione. Dick had to raise an eyebrow at the sour, disgruntled look sent his way by him.

"Ron!" the girl beside him hissed under her breath, elbowing him on the ribs.

"What?" he hissed back, and Dick wondered if they realized they were not being very secretive. "Its his fault Harry's not here! He could be part of them, and he tricked us while they abducted Harry—"

"Ron-!"

"Ronald Weasley-!"

"Ahem." Dick looked at the tense English people from over his dark glasses, giving them a peek of baby blues and eyebrows that arched all the way up to his hairline. "Sorry, but, you know, I seem to recall it was _you_ who suddenly barged in and _rescued_ me from the scene. Not that I'm not grateful, mind."

Actually, he was very ungrateful. Because if it wasn't for the redhead, he would already have rendezvoused with Bruce in their hotel room, which was always Plan B when the Batcave was not an option.

At any rate, his rebuke seemed to have shut Ron up, plus given his ears an amusing red tint.

"I hope you find your Harry, anyway," he stood, hands stuck in his hoodie's pouch. "Could I borrow your bathroom, ma'am?"

Leaving the room after getting his directions, he could hear the teens begin to bicker once he left, and rolled his eyes. He was painfully reminded of KF and Artemis, and sorely tempted to try to prod at their mental link. But he already knew that Megan's powers would not reach this far, much like they wouldn't reach Gotham when the rest of the team lounged at Happy Harbor.

"Get here already, Bruce," he sighed, twirling the stolen stick between agile fingers in a bored fashion.

* * *

><p>It was nearing dinner time, and Bruce had not contacted him in any way. By this point, Dick was staring out of the window, as if smoke signals would begin drifting from beyond the green fields around the house. His cell phone had taken permanent residence in his tight fist, despite Hermione's many reminders that it would not work so long as he was in the house. But they wouldn't allow him out of it to make his call, and it was getting on his nerves.<p>

He'd been staring for precisely ten minutes when someone flopped down on the couch beside him.

"Hey."

And then he was smiling at her like he wasn't worried out of his skin. "Hey. Ginevra, was it?"

"Ginny's good," she assured, her nose scrunching a bit at the full name. "Richard, was it?"

"Just call me Dick. How's the search for Harry going?"

"As well as the search for Mr. Wayne, I think," she said flatly. Then she sighed, curling up back against the couch. "Dad hasn't come back yet. I hope he's found something about Harry or your dad."

"That makes two of us," he admitted, taking off his sunglasses to rub at his temples tiredly. It wasn't that the people in the house weren't nice and welcoming (or as welcoming as they could be with someone they didn't seem to trust alone), but he was feeling distinctly like a prisoner.

_At least there are no underground facilities, plastic domes, or electric pincers of death._

"Why do you wear those indoors?" she asked, pointing to the glasses he held up for clarification.

"Oh, didn't realize I still had them on." The Cave was a tad darker than this living room, and he still wore them all the time. "I just—"

He was forced to stop his made-up-on-the-spot explanation (because who would wear sunglasses indoors _out of_ _habit_?) when a fast-moving shape on the corner of his eye made him duck instinctively, arm darting out to tug Ginny along. A sizzle, the sound of glass breaking, and then sparks of red were dancing around him.

"FRED!"

He looked up, and immediately discarded the idea that the guys from the restaurant were back. But while it wasn't them, the situation didn't look very promising. He took in the details because that was what he was trained to do – Mrs. Weasley on the kitchen door, wand out and face red, one of the twins standing on the other end of the living room and his sibling on his way upstairs but returning; broken vase on the right, toppled cardboard box on the first twin's feet -, but he could not make sense of the many little dots of light dashing across the air. He darted a look behind him, and yes, it was one of those same lights which had darted over his head and out of the window, showering the air behind it with red lights.

"What are those things?" Ginny had picked herself up from the ground, but wisely kept her arms over her very flammable hair.

"Nothing, just a little—"

"—experiment we've been working on—"

"—They're completely harmless!"

Another loud bang, a lopsided chair toppling over after being tackled by one of the lights.

"Mostly," the twins winced at the same time.

Dick twisted out of the way of a bludgeoning light, trusting the twins' judgment as much as he trusted Wally alone with a pizza. The lights bounced more and more loudly off the walls with every passing second, and Dick knew he wasn't imagining them picking up speed. Wally had nearly broken his ribs with a running hug once. He wasn't taking any chances with these things.

"Get rid of them!" the redhead girl shrieked, barely managing to crouch out of the way of the light and make a dash for the kitchen. Which was a good idea, at least until one of those things bounced into it.

"You need to disable them one by one!" George explained, and his twin had already drawn out his wand and begun aiming at the lights while chanting out what Dick assumed to be a spell.

But he seemed to have waited too long to attempt this, because the darn things were moving very fast now. A pained 'oof' and a tumbling Fred later told Dick these things did hurt if they hit you. But they didn't set you on fire, which was a huge plus.

And then it was the restaurant scene all over again, but there were less frightened cries and more indignant _Finite_'s.

Was this normal in 'magic' households?

They had only gotten one of them when Dick decided to try his hand at it. Side-stepping a furious ball of light, he drew out the stolen wand from his pouch. These people couldn't aim properly at such fast-moving targets, but they had never flown over Gotham's rooftops at top speed or tried to keep track of where Kid Flash was. What he doubted was his ability to get the stick to work.

Regardless, he aimed, mimicked the movement of his hosts' hands, and called: "Finite!"

Warmth spread through his arm, and the ball of light he'd been pointing at disappeared in a poof of smoke and a sound like a little fart.

Interesting.

He danced easily across the living room, tossing the little chant around and hitting a light with each one. This would actually be a good training exercise, if done in a room with few things breakable and no escape windows for the light to go out from. The last light actually forced him to leap over a couch to avoid, but after a last Finite, the Weasley family found Dick sitting on the couch he'd just leapt over, grinning.

"Twelve out of twelve. How many were there?"

It was a second or two before one of the twins (he'd lost track of who was who) replied.

"...Fourteen."

"Blimey. You have very good aim, mate!"

"You know, bit of practice makes perfect," he confided, feeling his grin turn cocky as he tossed the stick into the air repeatedly, like he might a Birdarang during a slow night. Except this stick wouldn't try to cut into his palm if he caught it wrong (which hadn't happened since he was ten, thank you very much).

And before he had to explain himself to the four redheads still staring at him, a flare of green from the fireplace had it vomiting out Mr. Weasley. Seeing the soot-covered wizard (that was what they were, right?), Dick was suddenly grateful for the cleaner methods of transportation they had at the Justice Hall.

"Any luck?" it was not Mrs. Weasley but Ginny who asked, peering at the fireplace, clearly expecting someone else to step in after her father.

They knew the answer before the man spoke. If the wary and tired look in his face wasn't enough, Dick didn't think he'd seen anyone flop down on the couch with quite such a defeated air before. Mrs. Weasley gave a sound like a sob over the hands covering her mouth.

"No. But he..." he directed a careful look at his three children, but bravely continued, "He wasn't in the list of casualties." But he didn't sound heartened by this. Did they think he'd been abducted by the terrorists or something? The sobs from Mrs. Weasley told him yes, and the man quickly attempted a smile of reassurance. "Shacklebolt says he saw someone with Harry's description run towards a black automobile with a muggle man, so there's that..."

"Did they get the plates?"

Mr. Weasley looked at him as though he'd forgotten he was there. Which he probably had.

"What?"

"His plates. You know, the number plate on the back of the car?"

Blink.

"I... I don't think they did."

_Sigh._

"A description of the stranger he left with, then?" Dick attempted. Because he didn't like being coped up in this house, no, but he was still secretly Robin, the Boy Wonder, and helping civilians was just second nature by now.

"Oh. Yes, he was quite tall, wearing a muggle gray suit, short black hair." Well, that could be anyone, but there was a nagging suspicion in the front of Robin's mind. _No way..._ "Shacklebolt said he saw him punch a Death Eater hard on their way to the car. The bloke dropped like a stone, one of the few we have in custody-"

The man trailed off when the boy on the couch jumped to his feet, an unbelieving grin spreading his face.

"Harry does know where this is, right?"

"Obviously," the twins scoffed.

"He's going to be fine, then."

"How do you know?"

Dick barely heard her over the sound of the helicopter outside.

"What the bloody hell is THAT!"

* * *

><p>The helicopter had landed well away from the house, but the sound it made was deafening until it died out. A scrawny kid with an oversized green shirt the same color of Robin's hoodie jumped out first. His dark hair was windblown and his glasses askew, and Dick couldn't care about him.<p>

Because then it was Bruce stepping out, a hand steady on the door-frame as his eyes quickly scanned the field for his ward, -

"Bruce!"

-who tackled him a moment later.

"Richard," there was relief in Bruce's voice, and Dick just let himself hug the man and breathe in his scent and convince himself that he really was here, and this all wasn't some hallucination.

"What took you so long!" he demanded, but couldn't muster the will to be angry. Instead he smiled that shit-eating grin at Bruce, letting him know that he'd known all along he was getting picked up via helicopter.

"Harry wasn't sure where the Weasley family lived," His mentor squeezed his shoulder briefly and then turned to the group of redheads (plus a brunette) coming out of the house to meet them.

Dick spared a look at their faces (shocked, speculative, relieved) before deciding he didn't feel very curious.

"Thanks for having me!" he said with a wave, before he slid between Bruce and the metal frame, claimed one of the leather-covered seats, and secured himself in place. After some casual pleasantries and many grateful words, he felt Bruce do the same on the seat next to his.

"Hectic day?" he called loudly over the sound of the helicopter starting up again.

Dick groaned in response, rubbing his eyes with a hand. "And we're still going to that stupid Dinner tonight, aren't we?"

"Yes." Another loud groan met this declaration.

"Are you even going to explain to me what I just went through?"

"Of course." Pause, and then they were rising in the air. "It was Magic."

"Har freaking har, Bruce."

He melted on the seat anyway, knowing he would get to ask more when they were back in the hotel. He didn't even notice he still held the stolen stick tightly in one hand as they climbed higher into the sky.

* * *

><p><em>Might make it into a Two-shot for Harry's side of the story.<em>


	2. Rescued

****_I've been adding bits and pieces to this for a while, and I think I'm content enough with he outcome. Due to popular demand, here's Harry's side of the story.  
><em>

**Rescued**

He really wasn't sure how things had gotten so bad so fast.

See, things were supposed to be simple. The Weasley Family plus Harry and Hermione had planned on doing a quick trip to Diagon Alley the week before heading for the Quidditch Cup, because Mrs. Weasley wanted to get all shopping out of the way. Apparently, she had gone for a preventive approach this year, threatening her children with an ultimatum: if they didn't have everything ready and packed for school by the end of the week, they were not going to the Quidditch Cup. Hermione would be going back to her parents after the event, and Harry had not been added to the threat issued, but they had come along all the same.

They had barely been on their way to Gringotts when it happened.

The cackling of magic overhead was the only warning they'd had before a dozen of hooded figures had appeared from thin air in the alley. If the threatening way with which they carried themselves and the unfriendly masks hadn't been enough of a clue, Harry knew from the first wail of terror that these guys were bad news.

It only took a moment for Diagon Alley to fall into chaos. The mere presence of the hooded figures was enough to make shop owners lock their stores and wizards to run for the nearest exit. People who were unlucky enough to fall to the ground were trampled in the rush of people trying to escape, and those too slow... Well. Harry couldn't see from where he stood, but the bright light of spells and cries of horror were enough clue.

"They put up anti-apparition wards!" Mr. Weasley's voice was loud above the din, and Harry could feel his hand steering him back towards the Leaky Cauldron, halfway across the alley. "Run to the Leaky Cauldron! Fred, George, look after your sister!"

"Come on!" That was Hermione, confused like he was but still making for the exit, her hand holding on to Harry's tightly. Ron was running alongside him, hand similarly caught in a strong grip.

They were almost there when a spell hit the spot just behind Harry's feet, sending him and pieces of stone tumbling forward, yanking Hermione down with him.

Ron pulled Hermione to her feet while Harry scrambled up to continue running. "Sorry!"

"Just keep running!" she said it with an obvious wince, but Harry couldn't stop to check if she was really ok.

It was hard to do when more and more spells were aimed their way. To their dismay, there were three hooded figures in the Leaky Cauldron by the time they made it there. They only got out safely because of a lucky shove on a table and a brilliant leg-locking curse from Hermione.

They slammed the door leading to the muggle streets behind them, only for it to be blasted off its hinges a few seconds later. It slammed against the opposite wall, almost hitting a middle-aged woman who promptly screeched and ran back the way she'd come.

"Run!" Hermione's cry was frantic, and Harry could understand why. There were muggles standing around and staring, obviously not understanding the sight of dozens of robbed men and women coming out of a pub they could not see. But they didn't move until the first ray of light hit one of them in the chest, making them drop unconscious with a cry of pain.

_Hopefully not dead_, Harry pleaded mentally.

"Who are those people!" he called, heart racing in his chest when he realized just how many people there were in the street. He purposefully kept his eyes away from the people being trampled on the floor, either wounded or—or—

"Death Eaters!" Hermione's shrill voice brought him back from his thoughts. A good thing, really, or he wouldn't have noticed one of the hooded figures was catching up, and was pointing right at them.

"Watch out!" He was fast enough to shove his friends far from the curse's way, but the spell hit him behind the head.

Pain flared across his skull, he saw white for a moment, and thought he now had a very good idea what getting hit on the head by a bludger felt like. It took him a moment to realize he was laying on the ground, and another to get past the buzzing in his ears. His glasses were broken, from the way they hung on his nose, but Harry ignored that while he stood and did the thing his instincts were screaming at him to do: run. There was no discernable red hair over the crowd, and his head ached too much to look too thoroughly, so he just focused on getting somewhere safe.

Paranoid and disoriented, he stumbled into a quieter street and ducked into the soothing darkness of an alley, where he promptly ducked behind a trash can.

"Bloody hell," he muttered through gritted teeth, gingerly holding the sides of his head, not quite wanting to touch the spot where he'd been hit. The sound of explosions and screams seemed to be getting closer, but that could have been his ringing ears playing tricks on him. But he did check his pocket to make sure his wand was still there, even as he curled more tightly behind the trash can, heart hammering hard in his ribcage.

He'd just begun getting his bearings back when he heard it:

"_Stupefy!"_

That was Ron! Harry stood up immediately, but had to pause for a moment to fight back a wave of nausea. He headed to the opening of the alley, where he could see a red-headed blotch rushing past, followed a few moments later by a Death Eater. Gripping his wand tightly, the dark-haired teen wizard took after them.

Running was a very bad idea, because it made his head throb and he couldn't really focus on what was in front of him. Robes and muggle clothing all meshed together with the dust of explosions and the bits of stone flying, but being stubborn about it served its purpose: he could see a group of redheads just down the street. He was still several feet away when they were surrounded by a whirlwind of colors, sucked upwards into the sky only to disappear.

"Wait! Mr. Weasley!" he called, despite knowing they couldn't hear him. He could just stare at the spot the family had been standing on a moment ago, not quite knowing what to feel. Shock? Confusion? Betrayal? The emotional turmoil didn't sit well with his stomach, it seemed, and he staggered forward a bit, hand flying to his mouth.

A firm hand steadied him by the shoulder, and Harry only took a brief look at the man's button-up shirt dark suit before letting his eyes close, trying to calm his stomach.

"Are you okay?" The man's voice sounded taut and hurried, and Harry knew he wasn't even looking as he gave him a few pats on the back. "We can't stay here. Can you run?"

"Yeah."

So they began moving. It was a bit hard to follow the man, as he kept nudging them around in a very strange pattern. Harry noticed that said pattern always took them out of the way of any thrown hexes and curses, so he didn't complain when he was almost picked up and set down two feet to the right from where he'd been standing.

They came to a stop after ducking into a small café. One of its walls was crumbling, but it seemed it had been closed today, since there was no one else in there – either conscious or unconscious. Harry sagged against the wall, willing all ill feelings away and taking a better look at the man that had brought him here. He was crouching near the fallen wall, keeping a look out on the street. The suit he was dressed in was wrinkled and covered in dust, and also completely muggle.

Harry had seen what Mr. Weasley had been planning to wear for when they went camping to the Quidditch Cup. Considering Mr. Weasley was the most muggle-interested and muggle-involved wizard Harry knew, he thought it was safe to think that if someone looked muggle, they probably were.

He looked up when he noticed the man's dark brown eyes were watching him carefully.

"You're Harry Potter."

Or maybe if it looked muggle, it wasn't always muggle.

"Um," Harry self-consciously pressed his fringe down over his scar on the pretense of rubbing his aching head. "Yeah."

After a moment of silence, the man looked out of the café again. "You do know those people are most likely here to kidnap you, right?"

"W-what?"

The man sighed, shoulders tense. "We need to get you out of here, kid. You were with that family of redheads. Where do they live?"

He didn't think to question the man's knowledge, too busy trying to recall the address. He knew it, he'd read it just this summer on Mrs. Weasley's letter...

"Otte... otty..."

The man was looking at him again, and Harry couldn't help but feel that scowl was a tad intimidating. There was concern in the eyes that followed Harry's hand, though, and the way he rubbed the back of his head gingerly.

"Did you get hit in the head?"

Well, that one was easy, "Yeah."

"Did you faint?"

Eh... "Maybe? For a bit?"

"Are you experiencing any unpleasant symptoms right now?"

"My head aches," he admitted. "I felt nauseous for a bit, but I'm better now." There was still a bit of ringing in his ears, but it wasn't very bothersome anymore. "Why-?"

"You may have a concussion." Concussion? "We really need to get you out of here. Try to keep quiet and just follow me."

Harry didn't get any warning this time, his wrist was just grasped firmly by the larger man, and they were out in the street again. They would duck into dark alleyways when they could, but most of the time they'd use a muggle vehicle to shield themselves from view. At first he didn't know where they were headed, but they made a last turn on one last street, and—

"There." A modest black car was parked all the way down the street, miraculously untouched by wayward curses and debris. They were hastily making their way over when Harry heard someone yell behind them.

"WATCH-!"

SMACK.

Harry blinked. He hadn't seen the dark-clad-figure getting so close to them, but he did get a good view of said figure doubling over in pain, wand clattering as his not-so-muggle guide kicked it away. They then continued walking as if nothing had happened, but Harry noticed he had been pushed to stand safely behind the large man. A brief glimpse over his shoulder showed their attacker coughing on the ground, and Harry thought he saw a very shocked-looking man with dark skin staring before rushing forward to the fallen Death Eater.

His attention dwindled as the street turned into smooth leather seats and what was very obviously the inside of an expensive car. With how the car looked from the outside, Harry would have expected something more like the Ford Anglia he and Ron had flown to school on their second year.

Belatedly, he realized he'd been buckled in and his guide had already climbed onto the passenger seat. The smooth purring of a motor filled the spacious car, and then the streets were rushing past his dark-tinted window. Harry decided he'd prefer to stare at his knees instead of watching the dizzying streets.

"What's your name?"

Harry sent him a puzzled look. "Harry." The man already knew that, but he seemed content with the answer anyway.

"What's today's date?" He never took his eyes off the road while he asked. It took Harry a moment to remember the exact day, but he got another nod in response. "What were you doing before the attack?"

"Shopping." He was pretty sure about that. "With the Weasleys."

"Does your head still hurt?"

"Yes." Belatedly, he found himself wondering why the stranger kept asking him all these questions. And thinking about that – "Who are you?"

The car slowed down when they rejoined busier streets, blissfully unaware of what had been going on in Charing Cross Road. They had to stop at a red light, and then he was being watched again.

"Bruce Wayne." The man kept paying close attention to him, even as he jerked his head towards the dashboard. "There should be a couple Tylenol in the glovebox. Dick's water bottle is still under the seat."

Harry reached out numbly for the offered items, thankful that bending down to retrieve the mentioned bottle didn't bring back his vertigo. He found the pills under a black handkerchief and two pairs of dark glasses, and swallowed one with half the remaining water in the bottle.

"Who's Dick?" he asked.

"My kid." Wayne wasn't looking at him any longer, and the car was running again. "Harry, I think you have a concussion. I'm taking you to the hotel I'm staying at so I can check you over and get you some rest. Wizards heal quicker than normal humans, but I don't want to risk it. If you can, try to remember the Weasley's address, but don't strain yourself if the pain gets worse. Did you understand everything I just said?"

Harry nodded, before remembering Mr. Wayne wasn't watching him. "Yeah. Are you a wizard?"

"No. I know a few, though. You don't need to worry about the Statute of Secrecy, but try not to cast any spells just in case." He paused. "You **do** have your wand on you, right?"

The sudden panic that gripped Harry's mind only left when his fingers curled around the handle of his wand, and he relaxed into the seat.

"Yeah." All the emotion seemed to be weighing down on him. His eyelids were beginning to feel a bit heavy, and he wasn't sure when the muggle medicine would begin kicking it. He certainly hoped it would do so soon.

Mr. Wayne was telling him something in a soothing voice, and Harry thought he caught the words "sleep" and "you can". Before he could think to confirm it, though, darkness had claimed him. He had the feeling of waking up briefly several times before he finally fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

><p>Next time Harry woke up, there was a warm blanked over his chest and a soft pillow cradling his head. The world was still horribly fuzzy, but he soon realized it was because he didn't have his glasses on. He was about to reach out to get them from his nightstand when he heard a vaguely familiar voice talking:<p>

"...must be blocking it." The voice sounded slightly frustrated, and the sigh that followed his sentence only served to confirm it. "It's fine. I'll get him myself; I'm pretty sure the kid knows where they live. I just need to wait for him to wake up. Mhm. The size of an egg on the back of his head, but he was pretty lucid."

Harry hissed at the ache that made itself present when he tried turning his head, and realized who the man must be talking about. Just to make sure, he reached up with a hand. Maybe not egg-sized, but the painful lump in the back of his head sure hadn't been there this morning.

"I'll let you know when I get Richard back."

The edge of the bed dipped, and when he turned, Mr. Wayne's blurry shape was offering him his glasses.

"Feeling better?"

"Loads," Harry said, and meant it. He could focus easily with his glasses on, his ears weren't ringing, and when he straightened on the bed he didn't feel any nausea. Of course his head still hurt, but he'd had worse during Quidditch games. He would have told Mr. Wayne as much, but took more interest in the luxurious, modern room he found himself in. "Are we in the hotel now?"

"For now. Did you remember where the Weasleys live?"

Oh, right. Harry tried to remember the address on the letter Mrs. Weasley had sent him, barely visible between dozens of postal stamps...

"Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon." That sounded about right. "But how are we getting there?"

The man had pulled out a cell phone from his pocket, deftly pushing the buttons with his thumb. "Helicopter," he replied while the phone itself responded with a small beeping sound. "We still have a while before it gets here."

"Ah," said Harry eloquently, trying to wrap his mind around the fact he was going to travel in helicopter. Concussion or no concussion, Harry found himself baffled in the presence of Mr. Wayne. He fiddled with the bed covers, which he realized had been carefully pulled over him so he was tucked in, at a loss of what to say. Mr. Wayne obviously didn't have the same problem.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, I just had breakfast a while ago." At least that's what Harry thought, so he was very surprised to hear his stomach growling. Confused, he searched the room for a clock, finding one in the stylish nightstand by the bed. It was way past noon! "How long was I out?" he blurted out, startled.

"After we got to the hotel and I had a doctor check you over? A few hours," Mr. Wayne said. There was an assessing look in his eyes, but Harry didn't think he was checking for health issues. "Come on, we'll go to the restaurant for a quick lunch."

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne's idea of a 'quick lunch' was very different from Harry's. It felt like dinner with the Weasleys, only this food looked five times as expensive as anything he'd ever eaten. He only began eating after his plate was nudged towards him and Mr. Wayne had sent him a pointed look.<p>

The man was imposing, could punch Death Eaters in the gut without a second's thought, and was wealthy enough to get them a helicopter ride. But though some people kept throwing glances their way (looking for Mr. Wayne, not for Harry), the man acted like a completely normal fatherly figure. Harry found it was easy to get comfortable around him, once they weren't running away from Death Eaters in the middle of the street.

"Do you live with the Weasleys, Harry?" he asked halfway through the meal.

"No, I'm just visiting. But I'm sure I have the address right," Harry said, guessing the reason why the man asked.

"Ah. Then who do you live with?"

"My Aunt and Uncle." Not like he was going to tell him where they lived unless it was somehow important.

"Do you like it there?"

It was only then that Harry began getting suspicious of the line of questioning. Frowning, he looked up from his meal, knowing there was something off with the path the questions were taking, but not knowing where Mr. Wayne was going with it.

"Not much," he said, going for honesty. He'd never hidden his disregard for the Dursleys, or his desire to stay somewhere else through the summer. "But I only spend the summers there, so it's okay."

"Is it? Do they treat you well?"

"I guess," he shrugged, not quite understanding the growing unease he was feeling. It was the first time someone actually asked him about the Dursleys, and all of a sudden, he wasn't so inclined about badmouthing them. "They're not that bad. Besides, I'm spending the reminder of the summer with Ron – with the Weasleys. They're brilliant."

Mr. Wayne smiled, making some of Harry's dread go away. He wasn't sure just what he'd been dreading, but he'd gotten a feeling that this conversation was a very serious one to have.

"Would you prefer to spend all your summers with them, then?"

"Of course," Harry answered without thinking, snorting inwardly at how silly the question was. The Dursleys versus the Weasleys? There was no contest there."

"You sound pretty confident. I look forward to meeting them, then. I hope they're taking good care of Dick."

Briefly, Harry recalled asking the man who that was, and it took him a moment to relate that to the man's words.

"The Weasleys took Dick?"

"Indeed," the man said, and he finished the little that was left of his meal before continuing, "I think they might've mistook him for you in the chaos of trying to escape. You both have black hair, and Dick's top was the same color as yours. That's about as far as similarities go, but I suppose they're enough when one is panicking."

"Oh." A weight Harry hadn't known was in his chest was lifted, making him feel inexplicably relieved. The Weasleys hadn't just left him behind. And by the time they noticed Harry wasn't with them, they must have been on their way to the hotel already. Now Mr. Wayne's kindness made sense, too. Of course he'd want to get his kid back, and dropping Harry off was just a side advantage.

"Harry."

When he looked up, Harry found Mr. Wayne's arm outstretched, and his hand holding out a small white card for him. Harry took it, and saw the logo of a company he'd never seen before. Behind it, though, was a phone number scribbled with a muggle pen, and Mr. Wayne's name on top of that.

"If you ever need help in the non-magical world, feel free to call me. I live in America, but I have many contacts here that could help you with anything you might need," he said seriously, and Harry nodded. This new bout of kindness, he didn't understand, but he didn't want to reject such a nice offer. Even if he'd never take him up on it. "And Harry," he said a bit more softly. "If you really want to live with someone other than the Dursleys, I have all the legal means to help you achieve that."

Harry realized he'd drawn in a breath perhaps too harshly, and that his eyes were wide with surprise. But all he could think of saying was a brief:

"…Seriously?"

"Seriously," Mr. Wayne confirmed without hesitation.

And before Harry could even begin thinking about what those words meant, the cellphone in the man's pocket began beeping, and it was time for them to go board a helicopter.

* * *

><p>For the second time in his life, Harry decided that brooms were his preferred method of flying. The first time he'd had to decide on something like this was last year, when he'd gotten to ride a hippogriff in Care of Magical Creatures. The experience had been interesting, but the feeling of the large wings moving just beneath him hadn't been the most comfortable.<p>

A helicopter didn't have the same problem. In fact, as far as seats went, this one was very comfortable, even with the security belts strapped around his chest. The problem was the noise: it was almost deafening, even through the protective gear he'd been given to wear. The whole metal frame around them was also a bit unsettling, and to finish off, nothing could beat the view you got in a broom.

But it got the job done, Harry would give it that. The downside was, it was much slower than floo travel, and the noise the rotor created turned any attempt at chatting impossible without screaming every word. And the things Harry might want to talk to Mr. Wayne about shouldn't be shouted for anyone to hear.

So Harry sat tight, and glanced out of the window while the sky got steadily closer to an orange hue. Turning his head didn't hurt too much now, and if he checked on the lump on the back of his head now, it seemed to have shrunk a bit. He still hissed when Mr. Wayne's voice made him turn around too quickly, though:

"Is that it, Harry?" He was staring intently out of the helicopter's door, to a familiar and almost impossible-looking structure.

"That's the Burrow!" he declared with a deliberately soft nod, lest he want to get another headache.

Mr. Wayne yelled something at the pilot, and the helicopter began landing a few ways away from the house. From where they were, Harry could see the Weasleys already piled outside the house, and hastily began taking off his security belts.

No sooner had they landed and the rotor's sound faded, Harry flung the metallic door of the helicopter open, and jumped onto the green grass that surrounded the unusual house the Weasleys lived in. A smartly-dressed boy with a green hoodie the same color of Harry's large shirt was the closest to the helicopter. Harry only spared Dick a glance, though, because he was already being tackled by a mass of bushy hair.

"Oh, Harry! We're so sorry!" she was saying. And then she suddenly pulled back to get a good look at him, to check it really was him this time, no doubt. Harry laughed.

"It's okay," he said, even if he thought he and Dick looked nothing alike. He couldn't remember a time when his hair had been nearly as tidy as Mr. Wayne's son's.

Speaking of, Harry gave in to his curiosity and turned around to look at the helicopter. Mr. Wayne had his hand on his son's shoulder, which he squeezed briefly in relief.

"Thanks for having me!" Dick was saying, waving cheerfully at the Weasleys, and then he slid between Mr. Wayne and the doorframe to disappear into the helicopter. His father smiled fondly after him, but instead of following him in, he took a few steps away from the helicopter to meet with Mr. Weasley.

"Oh, Harry!" Mrs. Weasley fussed, checking him over and completely missing the mocking coddling gestures the twins did behind her back. Ron snorted, and smiled widely at him when Harry caught his eye.

"He's a really nice kid," Mr. Wayne was saying behind them, and Harry craned his neck to look at where he and Mr. Weasley were shaking hands. "I'm glad we could get this sorted out. Thank you again for taking care of Dick while we got here."

"Not at all, not at all! Thank you for getting Harry out of that mess," Mr. Weasley's tone was earnest, but his eyes kept straying to the muggle flying machine, and they shone like a child's on Christmas morning. "Is that one of those jollycoppers?"

"A helicopter, yes. It was the fastest way I could think of to get us here." Harry thought Mr. Wayne sensed what Mr. Weasley would want to ask him about, because the next moment he was looking at his watch and shaking his head.

"I hope it's fast enough to get us back to the hotel in time. I'm afraid we must go, Mr. Weasley. It was very nice meeting you. And Harry, my offer still stands," he said, already climbing on to the helicopter.

Harry couldn't help but grin at him and wave his farewell. He didn't drop his arm until the helicopter was way high in the sky, and even then, his right hand was still clutching on to the business card he'd been given in the restaurant.

He'd think about it seriously this school year, and maybe, just maybe, he would give Mr. Wayne a call next summer.


End file.
